


The Corner of the Universe

by Etched_in_Fire



Series: Star Fox: Fate's Decree [19]
Category: Star Fox Series
Genre: Alcohol, Bar Fight, Featuring Pigma being a scumbag, Gen, Mild Language, Reflection, Regret, Remorse, Some Pigma introspection, because let's be real hes a neat character, some sensual themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21796180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etched_in_Fire/pseuds/Etched_in_Fire
Summary: Boredom has struck Pigma Dengar, who is on yet another cargo run job. Enamored with the idea of anything out of the ordinary happening, the hog soon finds himself in a dusty old bar on a space station at the corner of the universe.
Series: Star Fox: Fate's Decree [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/51568
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	The Corner of the Universe

The years flew by like flashes of light. He would blink and they would slip between his fingers. The loneliness of space did that—reaped things from you. First, it was your sense of needing to belong to others. After all, the stars were gorgeous enough to steal breath away but tempered enough to not—much unlike the abyssal vacuum they existed in. Second, it reaped your sense of time. Was it 2am ship time? Or had he forgotten to change the time since his last departure? ... When was the last time he had sat down for a proper meal?

Third, it reaped your sanity. Perhaps that was why Pigma found himself cackling at the hundredth time the tiny television mounted on his dashboard played the same episode of Corneria City Cops. His mouth moved to the words he had heard so many times. Lazily, he popped open a can of Cosmo Chips, plopping a handful into his mouth as he let his knee steer his small cargo runner along. It wasn’t like the emptiness of space was going to provide much in the way of obstacles. There was nothing around for miles—well, as far as he knew. His bored mind was almost begging for something to happen to him.

So perhaps that was why he decided to deviate from his usual trade course. The Cornerians had grown lax with their sentinels so it was quite easy to dodge between their patrols. He steered the runner a little closer to Cornerian territory, silently daring that wrinkly old General Pepper to send some troops at him. What was the worst they could do? Countless fleets of them couldn’t even stop Andross’s invasion all those years ago. They were useless. All so fucking useless.

A brimming carnelian light in the distance distracted him from his thoughts (and, more importantly, his Cosmo Chips). Brows raised, the swine knew he had to go see what was going on. Perhaps it was a downed vessel? Someone had run into trouble somehow out in the boonies—maybe they were just civilians with no weapons. Easy pickings, even for a solo mercenary. Pigma pushed the thrusters forward, discarding the can of chips over his shoulder lazily. It thudded back into the rest of the trash he had accumulated over the course of his trip.

As he drifted closer, he realized that the beacon did not belong to a distressed ship at all—it belonged to a small space station. Intrigue in his milky eyes, Pigma dared to venture a bit closer, watching as a few smaller space crafts docked. Flashy neon lights decorated the station’s outside. It looked like an older build, maybe twenty years old. There were pictures of scantily-clad women on the side, bent over in provocative ways with their nicely curved cleavage hanging out of their sleeveless dresses. Pigma snorted. Was this some sort of club? His tongue slurped through the saliva that had mustered in his mouth, trying to decide if alcohol was something he wanted. 

After some pondering, he decided that a drink sounded nice and something to interrupt his boredom sounded even nicer. He steered his way towards the space station’s docking bay. No Cornerian emblems graced the station’s sides and he gave a small relieved sigh at that. The yellow runner passed through the barrier staving off the cold touch of open space and he landed in the first open spot he could see. When he had gathered his wallet, he popped open the cockpit and shuffled his way out.

A wary glance to his left and right yielded some _fascinating_ results. He spied a few Papetoonian bandits checking the oil on their custom rigs. Their fealty was clearly displayed on their arms in the form of tattoos, bearing the shrieking, fanged crow symbol of the Murder—an aptly named violent organization that claimed territory in the rugged Papetoonian outlands. A few ships down, he saw some vagabonds, their clothes tattered. They were primates and the way they kept their heads low made Pigma wonder if they were ex-Venomian soldiers. He walked past the guard at the door, giving him a cheesy, innocent grin. The bouncer, a stern-jawed tiger, gave Pigma a nod in return, keenly resting a massive paw on the machine gun at his side. The swine knew the feline’s meaning.

_Heh… for once, I don’t want trouble. Or… not **only** trouble._

Inside was a bar scene that matched any other shithole bar the swine could have found himself in. Wooden creaky floors, no doubt put into place for the “ambiance” or whatever was cool these days. An old jukebox in the corner was rimmed with pink and blue lights. It was playing some old song that made Pigma think of his home and when he was a much younger, smoother swine. The volume was cranked so high that he had trouble even concentrating on his thoughts. 

Nevertheless, he plopped down in a chair, not even bothering to look up at the bartender.

“I’ll take some Fire Comet mixed with Cornerian Cola. 40% the Comet, 60% the soda. I’ll tip extra.”

“We’re out of Fire Comet,” came the reply from the bartender.

The hog stifled a groan. If there was anything Pigma hated more than a loud bar, it was a loud bar that had run out of whiskey. His oversized rump hanging off the bar stool, he sat with an expression of utter incredulousness on his curved snout. His milky eyes sized up the bartender, a lackadaisical mule with an unlit cigarette jutting out his mouth. The swine gave a scoff, and then waved a hand.

“Fine, fine, a Katinan beer’ll do. Somethin’ stout,” he sighed, the half-lidded eyes of the bartender never blinking as he turned to begin drawing the pale amber liquid from its designated tap. As the bartender slid the hog his drink, a few droplets of its foam crashed over the lid. With a wrinkled nose, the swine took the cold glass and took a drink.

_Tastes like piss. Why does anyone like this?_

Pigma drank it without complaint-- booze was booze, regardless if it tasted like piss or not. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his wrist, eyes skirting about the crowded scene. He looked at a group of ruffians playing pool. Their sleeves had been ripped off to expose their tattooed arms. A duo of weasels hung out near the bathrooms, sliding something discreetly to each other with daggers for glares at anyone who looked at them for longer than a second. 

Twin badgers towered next to the weathered doorframe, hanging beneath a flickering “exit” sign. One of them had a small wooden bat slung in his belt. The other had an old, clumsy double-barrel blaster that he had not seen in production since before the Lylat Wars. The corner of his mouth turned up in a barbaric grin. Ah yes, the Lylat Wars-- now _those_ had been the days…

A tad more wistfully this time, he took a drink, letting his vision soften until he could no longer read the labels on the bottles behind the counter. His forefinger and middle finger rapped against the glass, his nails drumming a soft beat that was lost in the cacophony of voices, bad jukebox music, and the sound of pool being shot just yards away. 

_Same scene anywhere ya go. Doesn’t matter if it’s the pits of Corneria City or middle of bum-fucking-nowhere._

The clanking of pool balls slamming into each other drew his attention for a moment, one of his floppy ears flickering in their direction. He leaned back, the small of his back cushioned by the hardwood backrest. Pigma downed the rest of his beer, all but slamming the emptied glass onto the counter. The mule gave a start, his dopey long ears peeling back in fright. Pigma guffawed, wiping away the clear droplets that stained his snout.

“Heh, it was okay, but I need somethin’ stronger,” the swine remarked to the bartender. “Somethin’ that’ll… That’ll…” _That’ll make me forget the Lylat Wars even happened. That I’m even here, on this piece of shit satellite station floating in the middle of Titania airspace…_ “Somethin’ good, kid, alright?”

The bartender’s apprehension did not dissolve—it tripled, yet regardless of that matter, the mule set to work on a drink. His back hunched over it, his hands snapping out to snag a few crystalline bottles from the cluttered shelves. The way he worked reminded the swine of a witch protectively standing over her cauldron, dumping enigmatic vials to brew forth a fell concoction. Whatever it was the bartender came up with, however, looked unimpressive—a dark amber drink in a glass with a bit of a fizz to its surface. Pigma quirked an eyebrow.

“Here,” the bartender offered and the swine snorted.

“Looks kinda watered down,” the deplorable pig remarked, but took the glass nonetheless. He took a drink as the bartender’s back turned, feeling the burn of liquor sear its way down his esophagus—painful, just the way he liked it. Pleasantly impressed, he plopped a coin into the bartender’s tips jar, its shrill clink against the glass muffled by the bar’s ambiance. 

His mistake was glancing to his left—making awkward eye contact with a woman making her way over. She was a skunk—her ruby red dress clinging to her curvy form. It ended just above the curve of her bum, her floofy tail billowing out like a sea of white clouds. She walked with that confident sway that made Pigma unable to look away. His milky eyes darted to the ribbon choker at her nape. It had a golden plate on its front—the word “LOVE” carved into it. His left brow quirked.

“Never seen you around the Astral Oasis before,” she remarked, expertly sliding into the seat next to him. Her painted nails drummed into the counter, signaling the bartender to turn back around. Before he could speak, the skunk said, “Ronnie, give me a cock… tail of your choosing. Thank you.” 

_Usually I’d like to chat up a busty bitch like this but I really don’t feel like it today._

“Astral Oasis?” Pigma replied when he saw her prying look. “I didn’t know that’s what this place was called.”

Her laugh was melodic but there was something sour about it. 

“Didn’t read the sign?” she inquired lightly.

“I see a place to drink an’ piss and I go there,” Pigma replied with a grin, then took another drink. 

“For the drink? The piss?” the skunk asked as Ronnie slid her drink. It was a fancily done drink—lightning blue with cherries afloat within, soaking the liquor up. She deftly snatched it, sliding the mule his payment. “Or perhaps… you’re here for something else?”

_She’s pokin’ awful hard. And that outfit makes me think she ain’t actually a ruffian like the rest of the shitheads here._

“Eh, I’m on my way to do a delivery,” Pigma replied with mustered nonchalance. If he said so himself, he thought he sounded convincing. “Got some guy wantin’ me to run stuff from Macbeth ta Katina.”

“Fascinating,” the skunk remarked but Pigma could tell she was not interested at all. “Well, I hope it goes well for you. This establishment doesn’t see many new faces. Not many people like going this far out for a drink.”

He was not too sure how to reply with that, so he buried his snout into his glass. After a few hearty gulps, he felt the liquor lax his shoulders. His silvery eyes fell upon her, crawling down her nape and to her low-cut dress. Her cleavage was cradled by the tight fabric, shaping it nicely. 

_She’s not up here talkin’ at me for no reason, though. Girls like this never talk to guys like me._

His mind took him back decades ago—back to when he would hit the bars with James and Peppy. James was the one they had always flocked to. Peppy sometimes would get a straggler—one of the ones that did not want to compete with James’s flock. Pigma had not let it bother him at first. But the long years frayed his patience thin—years of watching James turn them all down, still clinging on to the memory of some dead-and-gone woman that was never coming back. 

The swine tried to shove the memory down with another burning sip of his drink. 

“What’s your name?” she asked him.

“Marco,” Pigma felt himself lie so smoothly that he almost believed in it. “And who’re you?”

“You can call me Rosa,” the skunk said in her saccharine tones. She had drifted closer to him. Her perfume was a blend of flowers and vanilla. Its thick scent was nearly overbearing and bred poorly with the stench of the smoky bar. “I come here often. Very often, in fact. It’s nice to meet you, Marco.”

“Doesn’t seem like your type o’place, Miss Rosa,” Pigma remarked after a gander about the room. “Seems like the type o’place you’d wanna have a gun at.”

Rosa threw back her head with a light, melodic laugh. “And who is to say I’m not… oh, what do you folk call it... _packing heat?_ ” She leaned forward, voice dropping into a whisper. “Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there.” Her subsequent wink was the cherry on top. If she were to come off any stronger, the swine was convinced she would have to literally throw herself at him.

“Heh,” Pigma remarked, turning back to his glass. Figures. She was after something, she had to be. They always were. He drank deep into his glass. By the time he sat it back down, he had downed most of the drink. “If yer here often, then maybe there ain’t much to worry about. Can’t see ‘em wantin’ to hurt yer pretty face.”

“How kind of you to say so,” Rosa smiled. Her lips had been painted a deep, dramatic crimson. The deep hue highlighted her pearly white teeth. He supposed her smile was nice but the curve of her fangs held about it a beauty that he could only describe as savage. The corner of his lip curled. She was tantalizing but she was showing her hand too quickly. No one approach people like him in a place like this without wanting something -- his blood or his services. And he had a sinking suspicion that she was not interested in hiring him out.

“Although…” Her hands had found their way to the tops of his upper leg, just shy of his lap. They slid up towards his waist. Bit by bit. He could not stop his eyebrow from quirking. Her smile was sly, each word dropping quieter and quieter. “You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover… You might find that I can be really…”

_Here it comes…_

“... deadly.”

She went for his gun but the swine was faster. He caught her wrist in his hand. Her other hand vanished behind her. The sound of metal sliding out alerted him to a knife. It was a blur went she went for his head, the blade glinting in the dim bar lighting. He ducked under it, throwing a shoulder into her stomach and letting go of wrist. Pigma pulled out his pistol, aiming it for Rosa as she recovered from the shove backwards. Movement to his left caught his eye-- a hulking patron nearby, some thick-jawed elephant, had pulled his gun out. Pigma did not think twice. Before the giant could even get out of his booth, he fired and downed the brute with a single shot. One of the guards rushed over, equipped with a blaster that looked like it had seen better days. He popped a shot off, one that shattered a series of glasses hanging up behind the bar. Pigma returned fire-- one shot to the chest, one shot to the face. The guard fell. The other bouncers kept their distance. The rest of the rough-and-tough crowd seemed to gravitate towards the edges of the room, casting the two combatants wary looks.

Rosa ran at him with a shriek and a flurry of knife swipes. The blade cut in front of him, missing his gut by an inch. He backpedaled hastily, firing once and missing. Five swipes and his back hit a table where three patrons were sitting. One of them shoved him towards the skunk and Pigma threw himself forward to catch her off-guard. The knife grazed his arm but he managed to tackle her. Her weapon flew from her hand. Pigma used the majority of his weight to crush down on her, slamming a hand mercilessly into her throat. He hoisted her up.

Another patron came to her rescue and Pigma greeted them with a shot to their shoulder-- a miss that he was not particularly proud of. The patron hit the ground and was replaced almost instantly by another, who threw his glass at the swine. Pigma braced himself behind the flailing Rosa in his grasp, the shards no doubt sinking their fangs into the curves of her pretty, very breakable little body. She screamed. He fired at the man who had thrown the glass as the patron struggled with his gun. He landed atop his wounded buddy. 

“ANYONE ELSE?” the swine challenged angrily, his voice bellowing so loud that he heard the floorboards creak.

No one moved. A few of the other vagrants who had drawn their weapons lowered them, settling down into their chairs. Smug, the hog turned his attention to Rosa, who was still struggling to breathe.

“Well,” Pigma said to the slender skunk. “That wasn’t very ladylike of you. And look! Now some good people are deader than dirt. All ‘cause ya had to go batshit and try to kill me.”

The hog’s snout twitched and he looked to the squirming Rosa, her legs swinging back and forth. She was struggling to breathe, her gasps muffled by his fingers digging into her flesh. He held her up for the others to witness and a slow smile crept across his features. His pale eyes found hers, marveling at how bloodshot they had already become. 

“Soooooo who sent you?” Pigma asked her. She didn’t respond-- she couldn’t. He knew that. The swine dropped her onto the ground, training his gun on her. She landed in a heap, her dress disheveled and slipping off one shoulder. Her hands touched her neck tenderly, which would no doubt bruise after long. 

“Easy there…” someone in the bar grumbled. Pigma shot them a glare then looked to the bar. The barkeeps were standing back, though their eyes spoke their dark thoughts. They were looking for a chance to pull their guns and fire too-- but the skunk was no doubt a valued customer. She probably had a deal with them. 

“Who sent ya, girly?” Pigma asked, ignoring the murmurs in the bar. The tip of his shoe collided into Rosa’s side.

“N-no one…” the skunk managed through a gasp.

“Now that can’t be right,” Pigma laughed haughtily. “No, really. Tell me. I’m _dying_ to hear it and you’re _dying_ if I don’t.”

Rosa looked up at him, ears back. Hand still massaging her neck, she spat, “Everyone in the whole goddamn system knows there’s a massive bounty out for you. The Cornerians put it up before the damn Lylat Wars even began. It doesn’t matter where you go. It doesn’t matter what name you take up. Everyone knows you killed James McCloud and ran off to fight for that _insane ape_.”

His jovial mien withered. Oh. Yes. Of course. James McCloud. It was always about James McCloud. Pigma had bombed a dozen Cornerian bases. He had held countless civilians at gunpoint. He had robbed. He had murdered. He had pillaged. But it didn’t matter. It all came back to James McCloud. One death that made the entirety of Lylat weep. He had been their golden boy. He had been their idol.

“Huh,” he remarked. “You’da thought since that happened so long ago that people woulda just forgotten by now. But I guess that ain’t happenin’. Funny, you’re a fucking assassin but you act like you’re so noble ‘cause you’re tryna gut a _murderer_.”

He could hear people stirring in the bar. Restless… they were looking for an opening. He had to get out of here. He knew if he didn’t that one of them would get lucky. One shot and he’d be bleeding out on the ground, his remains shipped off for General Pepper to approve. The hound would stamp someone’s contract with confirmation and they would be rich as a baron. Pigma glared down at her. 

“I don’t care much for morals,” Rosa hissed. “I just want the cash.”

“Baby, we all want cash,” Pigma retorted. To the rest of the bar, he said, “You’re gonna let me walk outta here.” To emphasize why they would be adhering to his wishes, he flashed open part of his coat-- revealing a series of grenades. “Or we go boom-boom brighter than Solar.”

The guards by the doors moved aside to let the swine pass. Pigma stepped over Rosa, making his way towards the door back to the hangar. He grinned at the scowling patrons, nodding to one or two of them with extra bravado. By the time he made it to the door, his would-be killer had recovered and was picking herself up from the floor. She did not bother to correct the drooping strap that revealed her ebony shoulder. Her hands curled into fists, fur ruffled madly as she glared at him. Pigma tossed her a smirk and a wink as he stepped through the door. It slid shut behind him.

The walk to his yellow-painted ship was thoughtful. He toyed with his chin, stroking it as though he even had the capability to grow a beard. People were so keen on defending ghosts these days that they refused to take off their nostalgia glasses. Everyone always talked about how great James had been. But Pigma had known better. He had known the guy had left his son to effectively get raised by his best friend’s wife. He had known James had wasted his years away fighting for something he could never achieve. He had known James as the hypocrite who basked in the limelight but swore up and down that he hated it. He knew James for what the vagabond had really been-- a charismatic disaster with a pretty face. 

_Heh go fucking figure… find even some old James McCloud fanboys out here, in the middle of fucking no where._

Pigma strode up to his ship, quietly missing his sleek Arwing for the first time in years. He had traded it in for a Wolfen all those years ago… and then he was even robbed of that. Time was cruel and karma was real. That was what he had made of the whole situation, at least. He patted his creaky ship’s hull. 

_When this trip’s done, I’ll get ya a new paint job._

He remembered when he had done all of the paint jobs on the Arwings. Peppy had wanted his to be red but James had valued uniformity. Pigma had offered to do a red streak on the tips but James had found out about that and had said yellow instead. The guy had always been controlling, even when he spoke so calmly, so lightly. It was like he had been so scared of losing things. Losing control. And Peppy… Peppy had always been so eager to please him. So eager to make James feel _comfortable_ , even when it meant sacrificing assets for the team…

With a solemn expression, he opened the cockpit of his ship and climbed ungracefully in. He tried to shake the old memories away but that bitch Rosa had reminded him of all those reasons why he had left Star Fox. All those reasons why he had done what he did. 

For the thousandth time in his life, as he sat in that cockpit, he wondered if he felt guilty. His eyes glazed over, staring at the steering of his cockpit. The glass overhead clicked shut, sealing him into the old rickety vessel. He sighed and pulled the seatbelt over his round body. The same conclusion came to him, the one that validated his feelings and made him feel slightly better about everything.

And that conclusion was this: his feelings on the subject did not matter. The universe had looked at him for the monster he was and they had decided to become judge, jury, and executioner. Only, they had failed at every execution attempt. Their guillotines were not sharp. Their poisons were not deadly. And so Pigma Dengar lived to fight another day, laughing all the while at his lack of control over his fate. He was a monster because the world said he was. And that made everything he did all the easier. Pigma flicked on the engines and they hummed to life after an awful sputter.

The doors to the bar slid open and he saw one of the bodyguards, the tiger, standing there, holding his machine gun up with both arms. It was an older model still, but not decrepit enough for him to wave it off. The guard pointed it down the lengthy aisle, at his crusty, mustard ship. Thoughtless and bred from reflexes, the swine swiveled his forward cannon towards the bodyguard, who was snarling primitively at him. The tiger pointed it and a split-second later, the barrel exploded to life with lasers. Pigma squeezed his own trigger finger down and returned fire in bulking, heavy blasts. The light was so blinding that he did not even see the tiger fall-- he just knew that a few moments later, he was taking off, hovering backwards and unloading a deluge of lasers onto each and every vessel in the hangar with indiscriminate yet _gleeful_ wrath. He topped it all off with a single bomb, sending it towards the doors to the base and promptly hitting the thrusters to rocket out and into open space.

 _But they let you gooooo…_ Part of him whimpered mockingly. 

_But nothin’. That tiger wasn’t there for shits an’ giggles._

_Fair enough, fair enough, let’s get the fuck outta dodge._

He did not stay to see what became of the Astral Oasis. Pigma popped a handful of chips into his mouth and hit hyperdrive. He plugged in his destination coordinates a few minutes later, then leaned back. Maybe he should have felt guilty but this was just another incident on another average day. The Cornerians would think to maybe investigate the wreckage. Or maybe they would let the outlaws perish. Either way, after an hour of hyperdrive travel, Pigma had drifted off to a serene slumber with his hands atop his stomach. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place 6 years after the Lylat Wars and before the events of Star Fox Adventures.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I've said it a bunch in my various Discord chats and I'll say it again-- Pigma is so darn fun to write so I couldn't resist doing something featuring him in a post-Star Wolf setting. He's so delightfully terrible and complex, I just love the potential with him. Looking to maybe do another piece featuring him even though he's wildly unpopular due to him supposedly murdering James to death. We shall see!
> 
> Also, poor Rosa. I hope she's okay.
> 
> ...
> 
> Okay enough to appear in a sequel, maybe?


End file.
